The report was something about gene therapy gone awry or some such. I almost decided to change the channel but the studio cut to a live reporter on the scene at a CDC quarantine center, I wasn’t smiling anymore. It was gruesome. There were a handful of screams that the over-the-shoulder camera’s audio recorder picked up. The visual feed was centered on a female reporter in a business top and a casual-but-professional pencil skirt. I was thinking it was an odd choice of attire for a place like that.
The A/V feed was live. The cameraman then changed focus to a pair of guardsmen posted to the doors, automatic rifles shouldered and pointing slightly downwards. The lady, Linda ScoriensomethingItalian was reporting on the amount of people being sent to these Q-Zones erected by the CDC and enforced by the US Army. It wasn’t a building that was being used as a quarantine zone. It was one of those really large (looked like it was 60’x60’x10’) build-a-kits that became some sort of compartmentalized medical center of convenience, built for fast construction instead of strong imprisonment.
The scream came again, but this time something else happened. The audio picked up gunfire muffled by the visqueen shell that was drawn taut over its aluminum frame. Blood viscerally splattered onto the white plastic in an elongated arc. The cameraman was zooming in on the silhouette that suddenly appeared from the right. It was actually a pair of silhouettes. Suddenly the giant shadow became smaller, taking the form of a man in a scientist’s trench coat, his left arm dangling to his side, blood dripping, and stepping away backwards. He had a gun pointed at the man moving briskly from the left. “STOP! Don’t come an-” BLAM BLAM “I said STOP!” BLAM
The reporter wasn’t reporting anymore, her voice shrill with concern and hysteria, “George, we have to-George! Stop recording and-STOP! What if there’s more of them? We have to leave, we have to go now!”
George wasn’t paying attention to Linda, his camera still centered on the scientist’s shadow. The man chasing the scientist had collapsed but a few feet from him. Even then, it was still crawling forward, the arm pulling himself closer to the scientist. The scientist had slowly raised the pistol, pointing at the man’s head. The zombie was shot executioner style, the blood splattering everywhere. The man turned the gun on himself. George noticed at the corner of his eye that the two guardsmen opened the locked door and ran inside, the harsh report of M16s and primal yelling from more than one person making an odd dance partner. One of the guardsmen and an infected person had broken through the flimsy visqueen shell making up a wall of the Q-Zone. The zombie had tackled the guardsman onto the street, his teeth gnawing into the man’s neck. Linda had let out a scream that bled into a sob, repeating, “We have to go”. The other guardsman ran through the hole that was just made by the zombie. It was looking into the camera, an expression of insatiable hunger on its face. The zombie started to get up but was shot in the head by the other guardsman, the body falling on top of the guardsman. The other ran to his fallen comrade to see what happened to his friend. He prodded both of them with the business end of his rifle, the zombie immobilized, slumped over his friend. His comrade began to gurgle as he tried to speak, blood pooling in his mouth. It was a look that had no misinterpretation. The man knew what he had to do. He took aim at his friend, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger once. Linda was mumbling, “Oh my god. Oh my god,” and then she screamed, “Oh my god!”
More started to pour out of the Q-Zone. The soldier heard them before he saw them, rifle already and already aiming before he opened his eyes, his training taking over. In-between each kill he was yelling to George and Linda, “Go! Now! Leave!”
Linda, “Come with us. We can escape, our van is-“
“There’s too many. I can give you time”
“But-”
“NOW”
The camera was unshouldered, the feed still broadcasting live. I can tell the man was running because of how the camera was shaking, it was aimed behind him in an attempted to keep filming, zombies giving chase. George and Linda made it to their news van. He gave her the camera, told her to keep filming. A zombie was repeatedly smashing his face into the glass while George fumbled with the keys. The crack in the window was small, but grew with each hit. Linda was screaming that they had to move. George started the van, running into anyone in his way. So there I was at the beginning of Z-Day. In my dorm, on my couch. No pants on.
Just a plain shirt and some boxers.
Boxers that started to smell really bad and weigh a lot more than usual.
Pizza that didn’t start to taste good anymore.
Water that...well, water doesn't have a taste but you get what I'm saying.
Someone banged on my door, frantically trying to turn the doorknob. Ignoring my pantsless state, I ran to the door and peered into the peephole. It was my friend. He wasn’t infected so I opened the door.
“Hey Will we have to,” sniff, “What is that sme...Did you just shi-”
“Yeah I have to change”
I’d have to change more about myself than just my boxers now that it’s Z-Day. Well, at least now there’ll be no more finals.
